Ice Hunter (10 page)

He was asleep, his arm draped over his face, napping lightly. He felt Kira's finger tracing the line of one of his scars.

“Nice nap?” she asked.

“Did I snore?”

She rolled her eyes.

“Sorry.”

“I'm not. You know, if we hadn't done it in the dark the first time, we might not have done it at all. I've never seen so many scars. Have you noticed that I've never asked about them?”

“I noticed.”

“Have the other women in your life been curious about them?”

“Some were, some weren't.”

“How do I add some and some?”

“You're the scientist.”

“I haven't figured you out yet,” she said.

“Is that bad?”

“No, but I'm nosy.”

“I'm pretty simple.”

She laughed in his face and poked him in the chest. “Bullshit, Service. You are a complete mystery.”

“Not to me.”

“I worry about you, Grady. For God's sake, you wander around the woods all night with crazies and sleep on footlockers! That's
not
normal.”

“I think of it as training.”

“For what?”

“Life. If you get too comfortable, it's too hard to go out and do what you have to do.”

“That's twisted.”

“It's reality. People who get too relaxed stop producing.”

“You're not a factory.”

“In some ways I am.”

“A shrink might have some fun with that.”

“Shrinks have fun with everybody else's problems.”

“Ah, my modern Luddite.”

“Whatever that is,” he said.

“Okay, I've put this off long enough. Now I'm asking. Tell me about the scars.”

There was no point in arguing. He propped himself up on his elbows.

“Bottom to top. Left thigh, that's from Allerdyce, 20-gauge shotgun slug. Left ab, Vietnam, rocket fragment. Right ab, AK-47 round, also Vietnam. It hurt like hell. Left forearm, a fifteen-year-old squirrel hunter accidentally potshot me with a .22. Upper right thorax, Vietnam, grenade. Upper left arm, deer hunter with a 30.06; he took exception to my presence in his woods.”

She touched the upper center of his belly. “That one?”

“Grandma, .410 shotgun slug.”

Her mouth was agape. “Jesus, Grady! Your grandmother
shot
you?”

“Not exactly.”

She poked him again. “We're making good progress, Grady. Don't go south on me now.”

“Why is progress important?”

“A relationship is either going forward or backward. It doesn't stand still.”

“That sounds pretty arbitrary.”

“Trust the doctor on this, Grady. About Grandma?”

“She used to plink woodchucks that came up to her garden.”

“You're too big to be mistaken for a woodchuck.”

“I stepped in front of the round.”

She sat up and stared at him. “Stepped . . . as in accidentally, right?”

He shook his head. “I wanted to see what it felt like.”

She sucked in a breath. “You
what?
”

“I was curious. It was like an experiment. You know about experiments.”

“You could have been killed!”

“I wasn't.”

“How old were you?”

“Thirteen.”

“Jesus, Grady.” She put her head on his chest. Neither of them talked for a while. He wasn't sure if she was angry, shocked, or both. Her mood shifts could be mercurial.

“I don't want to know any more about your scars,” she said solemnly.

“I've never been shot in the back,” he told her.

“That's enough, Grady. I don't like the implications of any of this.”

“My ex-wife said I had a death wish.”

“Was she right?”

“Not usually.”

“You're not particularly adept at comforting a lover,” Lehto said.

“We were married four years and she never complained. One night at dinner she said, ‘I'd like another helping of cauliflower and a divorce.' I looked at her. She said, ‘You have a death wish and I don't want to be a young widow.' She left after she finished her second helping of cauliflower. She was already packed.”

“Baloney,” Lehto said.

He made a sign over his chest. “It's the absolute truth and as close to verbatim as I can make it.”

“Where did she go?”

“Away. She never said and I never asked. She filed for divorce in Nevada and after that, who knows?”

“Did you love her?”

“Not after that cauliflower business.”

“Don't joke,” she said. “We're having a serious discussion. You never tried to get her back?”

“Nope.”

“Would you have taken her back if she came back on her own?”

“I don't do hypotheticals,” he said.

“C'mon, Service. Open up.”

“Maybe.”

“You know, she might have been right,” Lehto said. “So she became a young divorcée instead of a young widow. Practically speaking, what's the difference? Alone is alone. She must've been really afraid of losing you.”

“That's illogical,” he said.

“These things don't have to make sense.”

“See!” he said, brightening. “It was that way with Grandma's shotgun too.”

“That poor woman. She must've been shattered.”

“She called me a fool. My old man took her shotgun away from her and gave her a ticket.”

“You made that up.”

“Only the ticket part,” he admitted. “But it wouldn't have surprised me.”

She lay her hand flat against his penis and pressed. “You thinking what I'm thinking?”

“What?”

She took him in her hand. “What do I call him?” she asked in a whisper.

“What the hell are you talking about Kira?”

“It's an important move forward in our relationship,” she said. “Personal names for our private parts. It's what couples do when they start to fall in love. It's in all the textbooks.”

“Not any textbooks I've read,” he said, adding, “my ex and I didn't have any personal names for anything.”

“I rest my case,” she said. “You're not with her anymore.”

“And you think
I'm
crazy?”

“I don't want to talk anymore,” Kira Lehto said.

“Okay by me.”

They dressed slowly after their lovemaking. Dressing was the only thing Kira did slowly.

“We needed this,” she said.

He smiled.

“Excuse me, but that was an invitation to make a date for the next time.”

“Whenever you want.”

She put her hands on her hips and thrust out her jaw. “I'd like to hear some want from your end. This isn't an open-ended take-it-or-leave-it kind of thing for me, Grady.” Her voice had suddenly risen to a high pitch.

“Why're you mad?”

“I'm
not
mad. I'm disappointed. I care about you and I want us to spend more time together. Normal time, not so-called quality time, which is a loser's term for something is better than nothing. I thought you wanted the same thing,” she said with frown. “No, I take that back: I'm disappointed in
me
.”

“I don't understand what the problem is.”

“Your grandmother was right about you! You
are
a fool!”

Her truck tires spit gravel when she departed.

He had a sour stomach. Why did his relationships always go this way? What did she want, a billboard on US 41 to let her know he cared about her?

When he drove across a bridge over Wallen Creek he saw a woman in blue waders and a lavender vest, casting a fly into a pool by the road. Her bronze Maxima was pulled off the shoulder of the road. It had Lansing plates. There was a bumper sticker, a navy blue fish with the words
love 'em and leave 'em.

He got out and eased down to the rock-strewn shoreline. She was twenty feet away.

“Hi,” the woman said warily. She had reddish blond hair, round cheeks, a nice smile, her hair in a neat French braid that stuck out the back of a red-and-black baseball cap. The hat had a
lansing lugnuts
emblem on the crown.

“Do any good?”

“Just some dinks, but it's fun.”

“Rainbows?”

“Yep, you wanna check my license?”

“No.” He saw she had a wedding ring. “Your husband with you?”

She paused before answering. “No.”

“Does he fish too?”

“When he can get away. He travels a lot in his job.” She was giving him a suspicious eye.

“Is that a problem for the two of you?”

She laughed nervously and unconsciously stepped back. “Are you coming on to me?”

“I'm just curious.”

He could see her evaluating him. After a bit, she waded to shore, brushed the dust and debris off a flat-topped boulder with her hand, and sat down.

“I'm Jerrijo Burke,” she said, extending her hand.

She had a solid grip.

“Grady Service.”

“Chuck travels a lot. Fifty percent a year on the average. Some years it's worse. I used to be a CPA in a good practice. Now I just do taxes for friends. It makes me a little fishing money and keeps me in the business.”

“Downshifting?”

She smiled. “Getting back to basics.”

“You're happy?”

“What's this about?” she asked, her eyes declaring concern.

“I'm trying to work something out.”

“Yeah, I'm happy,” she said.

“Him too?”

“He hates being gone all the time, but sure. We're both happy.”

“You miss each other when you're apart?”

“Of course, but we've learned to focus on our time together, not our time apart.”

“That works?”

“It seems to,” she said, with a deep laugh. She dug her fishing license out of her lavender vest and held it out to him. “Check me, okay? I want to be official.”

He gave the gaudily colored document a cursory look. “You're legal.” He gave it back to her, noting that it was a shame that the state under Sam Bozian had done away with trout stamps as a way to save money.

“I've never met a game warden before and I just wanted to make it official. What's her name?”

“Who?”

“Look, officer, you started this. Your girl, her name.”

“Kira.”

“That's a nice name. Do you love her?”

It was time to shift the subject. “Do you want to catch some big brook trout?”

“Who doesn't?” she said. “Big as in how big?”

“Well, fifteen-inchers aren't uncommon.”

“Jesus—excuse my Greek.”

“You go west to the next intersection and turn right. Go about two miles. You'll see an old barn on the right. There's a faded sign for Redman chaw. There's a gate across the road. No lock. Open it and drive to the end of the two-track. You'll see some birches in a big clump across an open field. Walk over there and go down to the river. It's the upper part of Wallen. Fish guys have been planting triploids, sterile males. They grow like crazy. Usually they put them in brook-trout-only lakes and try to raise trophies. This is a new angle on that. Use a Green Stimulator or a Long-Legged Skunk and the bigger and bushier, the better. Around five, switch to a Green Caddis, say a twelve. Come sundown, forget it; they won't hit anymore. This afternoon, fish the shadows under the cedar trees where they hang over the runs.”

“Is it private land?”

“Nope, it's just not publicized. Be sure to close the gate behind you.”

“I don't know what to say. This is a really odd moment.”

He smiled, “I know. Thanks for talking to me.”

“Are you sure you're okay?”

“Enjoy,” he said.

He watched her drive away and thought any other day he'd drive up and hear her laugh as she hit big one after big one. What had Treebone said, a fish cop and a dog doc? Lots of people had jobs that kept them apart, but somehow managed as couples. He drove around feeling unsettled. He did not like how he and Kira had parted.

“Focus on the time you have,” he said out loud. Kira wanted more time. So did he. Maybe it was time to make time. Shit or get off the pot, his old man used to say.

He made two stops on the way to Kira Lehto's office.

Her receptionist looked up at him when he walked in. “Doctor's in surgery.”

“Cancel her appointments for tomorrow.”

“What?” the young woman asked.

“You heard me.”

“I can't do that without confirmation from the doctor.”

“Yes you can.”

Lehto was suturing a jagged laceration that zigzagged through a patch of shaved skin on a large brown mongrel. She wore a surgical mask decorated to look like a dog's snout, green scrubs, pale yellow latex gloves. She glanced at him when the door opened and said, “Scrub in, Officer Service, or stand clear.”